Free Mr Mingin by David Walliams Page B

kindness.”
    They stapped at some traffic lichts and Da raxed oot for yin o his haurd rock CDs. Mither skelped his haun, and he pit it back on the steerin wheel. She then pit her favourite CD on the caur stereo, and the auld couple in the nixt caur keekit at the Ploom faimlie wi an unco look on the fizzogs as ‘Rule Britannia’ cam beltin oot o the caur.

    “Mmm, naw naw naw, that winnae dae at aw …” said the TV producer as he studied Mr Mingin. “Can we pit some clart on him? He doesnae look tinkie enough. Mak-up? Whaur’s the mak-up?”
    A wummin wi faur ower muckle mak-up on appeart fae aroond a corridor, chawin a croissant and haudin a pouder-puff.
    “Darlin, hiv ye got ony clart?” spiered the producer.
    “Come this wey, Mr …?” said the mak-up wummin.
    “Mingin,” said Mr Mingin proodly. “Mr Mingin. And I’m gaun tae be on the television the nicht.”
    Mither glowered.
    Chloe, Annabelle and Da were led tae a wee room wi a television, hauf a bottle o warm white wine and some foostie crisps, tae watch the programme bein broadcast live.
    The thunnerous title music sterted, there wis poleet applause fae the audience and the bigheidit pompous-lookin presenter, Sir David Skoosh addressed the camera. “The nicht on Question Time it’s an election special. We hae representatives fae aw the major poleetical pairties, and as weel as that we hae a tink that caws himsel Mr Mingin. Weelcome tae the programme, awbody.”
    Awbody aroond the table noddit, apairt fae Mr Mingin wha proclaimed loodly, “May I say whit a delicht it is for me tae be on yer programme the nicht?”
    “Thank you,” said the presenter, a bit taen aback.
    “Bein hameless I hae never seen it,” said Mr Mingin. “In fact, I hae absolutely nae idea wha you are. But I’m sure you are unbelievably kenspeckle. Please cairry on, Sir Donald.”
    The audience lauched uncertainly. Mither looked bealin. The presenter hoasted nervously and tried tae continue.
    “Sae the first question the nicht …”
    “Are ye wearin mak-up, Sir Declan?” spiered Mr Mingin aw innocent.
    “A wee bit, aye. For the lichts.”

    “Ah, for the lichts,” said Mr Mingin. “Foondation?”
    “Aye.”
    “Ee liner?”
    “A bittie.”
    “Lip-gloass?”
    “A daud.”
    “Looks guid. I wish I had some on the noo. Blusher?”
    The audience snichered throughoot this exchynge. Sir David flitted on rapidly. “I should explain that Mr Mingin is here the nicht as he has been invitit tae bide wi Mrs Ploom …”
    “Pluuuuuummmm,” correctit Mither.
    “Och,” said Sir David. “I dae apologise. We checked the pronoonciation wi yer husband, and he said it wis Ploom.”
    Mither turnt reid wi embarrassment. Sir David keekit back at his notes. “Later in the programme,” he said, “we will be discussin the difficult topic o hamelessness.”
    Mr Mingin pit his haun up.
    “Aye, Mr Mingin?” spiered the presenter.
    “Can I jist nip oot tae the cludgie, Sir Duncan?”
    The audience lauched looder this time.
    “I should hae went afore we sterted, but I got the mak-up wummin tae dae ma hair and it took ages. Dinnae get me wrang, I am up tae high doh wi the results; she gied me a waash and blawdry. They even pit somethin cawed gel in it, but I didnae get a chaunce tae go tae the shunkie.”
    “Sure, if ye need tae gang, gang …”
    “Thank you awfie, awfie muckle,” said Mr Mingin. He rose tae his feet and stertit tae shauchle aff the set. “This shouldnae tak lang, I think it’s jist a Nummer Yin.”
    The audience yowled again wi lauchter. In the wee room wi the foostie crisps and the television Chloe and Da were lauchin tae. Chloe keeked at Annabelle. She wis tryin no tae lauch, but a smile wis definitely creepin across her coupon.
    “Awfie sorry!” exclaimed Mr Mingin as he crossed the stage again in the ither direction. “I’m telt the cludgie’s this wey …!”

17
Cowped Bouffant
    “And that’s hoo I feel there should be a curfew on aw people